A late diagnosis of autism meant I struggled with the alien codes of small talk and office politics – until I started work at an autism charity
I was sitting in a doctor’s office, describing yet again how a day at work could be hell. I told him why sharing the same space, listening to my colleagues’ music/small talk/breathing drove me mad and why someone saying “good morning” could feel like a personal invasion. The doctor was new, young; he gave a nod of recognition and then he said something strange: “I think you may be autistic”.
He referred me to a psychiatrist who concurred: “Autism. 98% sure.” I did the requisite tests which confirmed the other 2%. No worries, the Australian psychiatrist assured me. “You’re one lucky bastard, Susan. You don’t have to fit in with anyone.”
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